LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

(SMITHSONIAN DEPOSIT.) 

Chap. BtWilS" 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



I 



H out sa . 




1 



Louisa's little grave is marked by a plain white slab 
beneath the shade of Dr. S 's monument. 



f 



LOUISA, 



MY FIEST-BORN 



^ Skttji for llfl%rs. 



\\CUA>t^j^\^K>-^ . ONM-^^-^-^-d-* V -3 c^4a»\ 



WRITTEN FOR THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, AND REVISED BY 
THE COMMITTEE OP PUBLICATION. 




PHILADELPHIA: 



AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 

* No. 316 CHESTNUT STREET. 

KEW YORK: No. 147 NASSAU ST BOSTON: No. 9 CORNHILL. 

LOUISVILLE: No. 103 FOURTH ST. 



-\%^^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, hy the 
AMERI^JiJljS£^MIlAZ: SCHOOL UNI O N S 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of 



No hooTcs are published by the American Sunday-school Union 
without the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of four- 
teen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz. Bap- 
tist, Methodist, Congregationalist, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and 
Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the same 
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Committee shall object. 






I LOUISA, MY FIHST-BOM. 



What a moment was that when my 
first tender infant was placed in my 
arms ! It seems to me that an eternity 
of ages can never efface from my memo- 
ry the impressions of that hour. The 
unending, undying existence upon which 
it was now just ushered, and in which 
its embryo faculties would unfold, ex- 
pand, and ripen into maturity, awakened 
a tide of reflections within, while over 
all the bright future which rose upon 
my vision was cast a shadow of uncer- 
tainty, sufl&cient to chasten hope and to 
awaken trust. I recollect giving vent 
to my feelings in these lines of Watts — 

** My God, I would not long to see 

My fate with curious eyes, 
What gloomy months are writ for me, 
Or what bright scenes may rise" — 

1* 5 



6 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORlSr. 



as the little being on whose behalf they 
were repeated^ opened her mild eyes^ for 
the first time^ on the softened and mellow 
light — all unconscious of a mother's gaze. 
Louisa was a child of no ordinary pro- 
mise ; but being my first, and therefore 
having no one with whom to compare 
her, it was natural to suppose that all 
children so trained would exhibit very 
much the same traits. Had my experi- 
ence in the care of children terminated 
with her brief career, it would have been 
difficult for me to have realized that 
piety was not' natural to the heart of 
childhood. I might have supposed that 
notwithstanding the fall and its conse- 
quent evils, there was still something of 
goodness left that needed only to be cul- 
tivated in order to secure piety in the 
subsequent life. A few years of experi- 
ence, however, convinced me that the 
peculiar loveliness, docility and piety 
which my child manifested were not the 
effusions of any native goodness within 
her, but were the fruits of the Spirit. 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



The education of the first child is con- 
ducted in circumstances peculiar to itself. 
It is of course commenced without ex- 
perience on the part of the mother ; yet 
she has one advantage, and that not a 
small one. Her child is dependent upon 
her for its first impressions of truth and 
duty. It has no precedent by way of 
example; no one from whom it will, as 
a matter of course, learn to repeat pray- 
ers and hymns by rote, as the younger, 
in a well-taught family, always do, from 
the elder children. 

Louisa was rather a delicate infant, 
but after her first year she was favoured 
with almost uninterrupted health until 
the brief sickness which terminated her 
life at the age of four years and a few 
weeks. She had few childish griefs; 
yet there was always a shade of pensive- 
ness mingling with her mirth. Her 
little countenance bore an expression of 
thoughtfulness, even when dimpled with 
smiles. When only a few months old, 
music, especially when soft and plaintive; 



8 LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN. 



would make the tears flow down her 
cheeks like rain-drops. 

The first word spoken by a child is 
always an epoch in the mother's memory. 
Louisa had just closed her first year. 
She had been confined to the house for a 
few days by a slight illness. When 
sufficiently recovered^ I took her to the 
door to breathe the fresh air. A gentle 
shower had just passed over the earth. 
The clouds lay piled in masses on the 
eastern hills^ bright with the beams of 
the declining sun^ and the freshened fo- 
liage was sparkling in its light. 

Louisa gazed for some moments silently 
upon the scene^ and then exclaimed with 
strong emotion^ 

^^ Pretty! Pretty!'' 

It was her first word. She had^ it is 
true, uttered '^ Pa/' and " Ma/' but it was 
after many attempts by others to call 
them forth. This was spontaneous, and ut- 
tered in circumstances which could leave 
no doubt that a sense of the beautiful in 
nature existed within her infant mind. 



LOUISA, MY FIRST BORIST. 



During the night I was awakened by a 
slight rustling upon the floor, which I sup- 
posed to be caused by a little kitten that 
had probably made its way into our room. 
Fearing to awaken Louisa, who was sleep- 
ing in her crib at my side, I remained per- 
fectly still, endeavouring to ascertain from 
what cause the noise proceeded. The 
rustling ceased, and amid the darkness 
and silence I was startled by hearing her 
call out, " Kit-tee ! Kittee !" x\fter which 
she composed herself to sleep, without so 
much as noticing whether I was awake or 
not. For more than thirty years, no music 
has ever sounded half so sweet to me, as 
the clear notes of that silvery voice break- 
ing upon the still hour of midnight. 

From this period her words came more 
slowly than this bursting forth of intelli- 
gent expression had led me to expect, yet 
my thoughts were much occupied in de- 
vising means by which I might teach her 
the first prayer. But she advanced far 
into her second year and still I had not 
succeeded. 



10 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



At this time, the addition of another 
daughter to our family prevented for a 
short interval my attention to Louisa. 
Near the close of her second year, I was 
able to take my place again in the 
family, and resume my efforts at instruc- 
tion. 

One evening she was standing in a 
chair gazing at the moon, then nearly at 
its full, exclaiming, ^^Oh, bright moon! 
Oh, pretty moon!" and at the same 
time was raising herself up on her toes, 
and stretching upward her little hands, 
as if attempting to reach it. A thought 
struck me, and I extended my arms, 
to show her that it was equalty beyond 
my own reach, at the same time ask- 
ing, "Who put the moon up there, 
Louisa?" 

" Papa," was her instant reply. 

"No, my dear," I said; "your father 
could not reach up there;" and I stretched 
my arms upward again, to show her that 
it was very high. 

" Man put it up there," she said. 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 11 



"No/' I answered again; "man could 
not reach up there." 

After a moment's thought she ex- 
claimed " Great many^ many man put it 
up there." 

" No, my child/' I said ; but perceiving 
that her little mind had become wearied, 
I desisted, intending to resume the sub- 
ject at some future time. 

The next evening was pleasant. The 
moon was at its full. Louisa was again 
placed in the chair at the window. After 
some little direction of her thoughts to 
the subject, the question now came from 
herself — 

" Mamma, who put 'e moon up there ?" 

I pointed to the blue heavens, far 
above and beyond the moon, and beyond 
the stars. 

" Therel' I said, "in a bright, beautiful 
home, is a dear, great papa. He made 
the moon — he put it up there — he made 
the stars and every thing — he made 
Louisa's little hands, and feet, and head." 

But perceiving her to become bewil- 



12 LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN. 



dered in her efforts to comprehend what 
I said^ I diverted her attention to some 
subject better adapted to her feeble 
powers of thought and conception. 

She had now some idea of a Being 
superior to her father ; but what could I 
teach her to ask of him, which her fa- 
ther could not do for her? 

About this time an aged minister, who 
was visiting at the house, on bidding her 
good night, said — 

^^You are a good little girl, and say 
your prayers, don't you?" 

" She looked first at him, then at me, as 
if to ask his meaning, when he added — 

^^You thank God for taking care of 
you, don't you ?" 

The good man had, though uninten- 
tionally, given me a hint, from which I 
determined to profit. That night, before 
putting her into her little bed, I said — 

"Louisa, who takes care of you while 
you sleep, and wakes you again in the 
morning ?" 

"You do, mamma." 



LOUISX, MY FIRST-BORN. 13 



^^No, I am asleep." 

"Papa does." 

" No, papa is asleep." 

" Nancy does !" 

^^No; Nancy is asleep. Everybody 
is asleep." 

I then reminded her of the great 
Being who made the moon and the stars, 
who made her and everybody, and every 
thing. He never sleeps. He watches 
over Louisa, and over her father, and 
mother, and over everybody. He keeps 
Louisa's little breath, so that she can 
breathe and sleep, and think nothing 
about it. Now would not she like to 
thank him for doing all this for her ? 
And would she not like to ask him to 
take care of her during the night ? 

This great Being I taught her to ad- 
dress as "Our Father in heaven." And 
her first prayer was simply this : — 

"Our Father who art in heaven, please 
to take care of me and my little sister 
while we sleep, and please to wake us 
again in the morning." 



14 LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN. 



Her first morning prayer was simply 
thanks for protection during the night, 
in the same form. To this were added, 
from time to time, such petitions and 
confessions as circumstances suggested. 

^^I taught her that our Father in 
heaven was good, only good, always 
good — that he loved good little children — 
that he was patient with naughty chil- 
dren, and wanted them all to be good. 
That when Louisa is good, he smiles 
upon her, just as her father does. That 
this always makes her feel happy. That 
if she is naughty, her heavenly Father 
would be displeased, and then she would 
feel unhappy, just as if her father should 
frown upon her. 

This was not taught her at once, but 
gradually, as circumstances opened the 
way. Now her little mind began to un- 
fold its powers; and her little heart to 
discover its treasures of aJBfection, not 
only toward her earthly parents, but to- 
ward her Father in heaven. 

As she could bear it, I told her of the 



LOUISA, MY FIKST-BORN. 15 



Saviour ; of what he had done for her, 
and for all. But I have reason to be- 
lieve that she took in but feebly all views 
of him, excepting the one which repre- 
sented his love for little children. This 
she seemed at once to comprehend in all 
its fulness and sweetness. 

She soon learned the little verse, re- 
corded by the condescending Saviour for 
the lambs of his flock, and she delight- 
ed to repeat it. At the close of every 
prayer, she would say, ^<^for Jesus Christ's 
sake, who said, ' Sufier little children to 
come unto me, and forbid them not,' " — 
here she would usually pause, and with 
a subdued earnestness of voice and man- 
ner would say, " No, mus'n t tell them 
not to come ;" an explanation which I 
had given her of the phrase "forbid 
them not," when relating to her the 
touching incident which gave rise to the 
passage. 

There now opened a rich season for 
instruction, a time for sowing the seeds 
of divine truth, not in abstract princi- 



16 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



pies, but in the familiar form of hymns 
and Scripture stories. But of all she 
learned or was taught, nothing ap- 
peared to interest her so much as the 
story of little children brought to Jesus. 
When first told of the Saviour, her little 
heart seemed to go right to him, and she 
appeared to recognise in him a living 
friend. 

At this time she had a little playmate 
of whom she was very fond. ^^ Little 
Ma-my Libbit," as she called her in- 
fant sister, was too young to play with 
her. She could not even sit on the floor. 
Yet she delighted to amuse her with 
coral and bells while lying in the cradle, 
and could sing in half-articulate accents, 

*'Hush, my dear," 

while rocking her to sleep. But little 
Edward, the child of a dear friend and 
neighbour, was somewhat older — and al- 
though he was not old enough to help 
her pick dandelions, or ^^ dandy flowers," 
as she called them, and violets, yet he 



LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN. 17 



could toss back the ball which she rolled 
to him on the floor. She was permitted 
to visit him daily^ and thus an hour of 
delightful recreation was furnished to 
both the little boy and herself under the 
eye of his sweet Christian mother. 

When the hour arrived^ the little girl 
might be heard pat! pat! patting along^ 
with little feet^ over the gravel walk, 
through the garden, to a place where an 
opening had been made in the paling. 
When there, her little call would bring 
some one to take her through and convey 
her safely to the house. When the hour 
had expired, she was as regularly re- 
turned again, and the same little bird-like 
call brought some one to receive her at 
the pleasant back-door of her own home. 

During this time she was allowed to 
be much in the open air. A large yard 
shaded by trees, having good gravel- 
walks, with a few flowers along the bor- 
ders, and an abundance of wild flowers 
among the grass, furnished ample room 
for exercise and amusement. There, be- 



2* 



18 LOUISA^ MY riEST-BORN. 



neath the tall trees^ with the sun-light 
darting down through the flitting leaves 
and wavy branches, walking beside the 
little wicker-cart, amusing her infant 
sister within it, or gathering flowers and 
pebbles, while listening to the song of 
birds or watching the butterfly, and 
many a humming insect with shining 
wings, there, in that airy and quiet re- 
treat, it was the happy lot of my dear 
child to pass the long summer days of 
the second and third years of her brief 
life. 

Near the close of her second year I 
commenced teaching her the alphabet, 
the hint for doing so having been fur- 
nished by herself The Bible, from 
which her father read every morning, 
had been accidentally left open upon 
a chair. Her little hands soon had hold 
of it, and turning over its leaves, she 
discovered the large letter 0. Calling to 
me, with her finger still upon it, she ex- 
claimed, " Moon ! moon ! in papa's Bible !" 

As she found other moons in the 



LOUISA; MY FIRST-BORN. 19 



same place, I attempted to rectify the 
mistake, and at length succeeded in 
making her understand that they were 
not moons, but letters ; and that they 
helped to form the words, which her 
father read in the morning. After this 
I occasionally amused her with picking 
out letters, but I never pressed her at all, 
for it seemed to me that the birds, the 
green grass and the flowers were far 
more fitting companions for her than 
even the prettiest picture-book. 

About the close of her third year, her 
little play-mate became sick and died. 
Her father returned home one evening 
and told her that little Edward would 
never play with her any more; that he 
had just left him tossing upon his pil- 
low, throwing out his little arms in 
agony — that he was dying, and would 
soon cease to breathe. 

At first she seemed not to know how 
to support herself Her grief was sucL 
as almost to produce suffocation. At 
length tears came to her relief. "0^. 



20 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BOR:tT. 



mamma!" she exclaimed, "I can't bear 
it that little Edward suJBfers so." 

The little boy died and was buried. 
The disease being malignant, children 
were kept from the house, so that 
Louisa did not see him. 

When all was over, I took her to see 
the mother of her little play-mate. She 
walked thoughtfully along without speak- 
ing a word, until we reached the steps 
at the entrance of the house. Here 
there was something in her manner 
which reminded me of Legh Richmond's 
description of entering the house of 
mourning. There was the same light 
tread, the settling of the little counte- 
nance, already in sympathy with the 
sorrow within. As we entered, she gent- 
ly withdrew her hand from mine, and 
walking across the room, presented it to 
the bereaved mother, saying at the same 

time, " I am sorry for you, aunty C , 

that little Edward is dead." 

There was a simple pathos in her tone 
and manner, which cannot be described 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 21 



here. The bereaved mother, in speaking 
of it afterward, said that no sympathy 
ever offered to her was like that. 

The death of this child furnished me 
with the means of leading Louisa's 
thoughts forward to a future state. 
Little Edward would one day wake up 
from his sleep — she would see him again. 
It also enabled me to connect the unseen 
world with this — to show her that the 
good here will be happy there, and that 
the wicked will be unhappy. 

She soon ceased to grieve for little 
Edward, and delighted to think of him 
as in heaven. Often, when visiting his 
mother, she would leave her play, and 
running to '' aunty," would ask — 

" Where is little Edward now T And 
the mother, instead of answering, would 
return the question — 

" Where is he, Louisa?" and she would 
reply — 

" Up in heaven." 

After the death of Edward, she be- 
came quite anxious to hear her little 



22 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



sister speak ; and she would come to her 
mother and ask, " When will little Ma- 
my Libbet talk T She had often asked 
this question before. In the winter she 
had been told, that when the snow was 
all gone, and the little birds had come, 
then Mary would talk. But the snow 
all melted away, the grass became green, 
the birds sang, the flowers put forth, the 
spring-time was succeeded by the glow 
of summer, and still Mary did not talk. 
Again came the same inquiry, and 
Louisa was told that when the peaches 
and the grapes were ripe, then she might 
expect to hear her little sister speak. 
But the fruits of autumn ripened and 
were gone, and the sndws of winter 
again covered the earth, ere Mary had 
pronounced even her first word. 

Such was the difference in the phy- 
sical development of my two first chil- 
dren; and it seemed to me that the 
same difference was manifest in their 
mental history. As soon as Mary could 
speak, she began to repeat, in scarcely in- 



LOUISA, MY FIKST-BORN. 23 



telligible accents, every prayer and hymn 
which her sister did — but how much she 
understood of these, it was very difficult 
for me to tell. 

As might be expected, Louisa loved 
her little sister dearly. She was patient 
and gentle with her, never attempting 
by force to make the little one do as she 
chose. One thing distressed her greatly. 
It was to see her destroy the flowers 
which she picked and gave her. When- 
ever Mary did this, she would not at- 
tempt to pull them out of her little 
hands, but would run to her mother ex- 
claiming, "Ma-my Libbit tear all the 
pretty flowers to pieces !" It was rather 
difficult to convince her that Mary loved 
the flowers when she destroyed them so 
speedily. 

Ever since Louisa had been old 
enough to be taught, it had been a study 
with me how to make the Sabbath plea- 
sant to her, and yet maintain its sacred- 
ness. Before she could speak, I could 
of course make no other alteration in 



24 LOUISA, MY FIEST-BORN, 



my treatment of her than what would 
necessarily be caused by a change in the 
family arrangements. The subdued tone ' 
and manner of all around would natu- 
rally produce some effect upon her; 
soothing her spirit, and checking that 
bursting forth of mirth which was en- 
couraged on other days. As there was 
progress in intelligent observation, I en- 
deavoured to make a change in her play- 
things, so as to make some further im- 
pression on her mind of a difference 
between that day and others. Some 
few I reserved exclusively for the Sab- 
bath; to these I added flowers, shells, 
pictures, a slate and pencil, in short, 
whatever would keep her quietly and 
harmlessly employed. 

It would be impossible to enumerate 
all the expedients to which I resorted to 
accomplish my object. I cannot now 
recollect the time when I began to re- 
strict her in the use of her play-things, 
nor when I finally took them all away. 
I had from the first resolved on doing 



LOUISA^ MY FIRST BORN. 25 



this, as soon as she should be able to take 
scriptural views of the Sabbath. That 
the whole course of her treatment on 
that day was to her a keeping of the 
Sabbath, I can have no doubt. When 
she could read a little and could be 
taken to church, a proper observance of 
the day was comparatively easy. 

At length He who instituted the Sab- 
bath condescended to bless my poor endea- 
vours, and Louisa began to comprehend 
something of the nature and design of 
that sacred day. I had progressed in 
Bible instruction as far as to the giving 
of the law upon Mount Sinai, and had 
explained to her as far as possible the 
fourth commandment, when one Lord's- 
day morning, as I was placing Mary's 
play-things beside her, I said to Louisa — 

" Mary is too little to know that it is 
the holy Sabbath-day. She must have 
something to do, or she will be unhappy," 
and I was about adding that it would be 
wrong for Louisa to touch them, when 
she anticipated me by saying, not ^^I 



26 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN, 



won't touch them/' but, "1 won't want 
them, mamma. I won't want them." 

Another Sabbath morning, after Louisa 
was dressed for church, I told her that 
she might sit still now, as I wished to 
read. She had been reading to me as 
much as I thought was well for her, and 
I said to her that she might rest until it 
was time to go to church. 

Soon she came to me for a pinj I gave 
her one and continued reading. After a 
short time, on looking up, I found the dear 
child standing before me with tears in her 
eyes. She was holding out the pin and a 
piece of paper, into which she had been 
pricking the flowers from her frock. This 
was a favourite amusement with her on 
week-days. A richly figured piece of 
chintz, a sheet of paper and a pin would 
often keep her busied for a long time, es- 
pecially in rainy weather. Placing the 
chintz over the paper and confining them 
together, she would then prick closely 
and delicately around each leaf and 
floweret and stem, and thus make the 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 27 



impression of a pretty bunch of flowers 
upon the paper. She had been doing 
this with the tiny flowers on her frock. 

Holding out the paper and pin^ she said, 
as well as her sobs would allow, " Mamma, 
God will be displeased with me. I have 
been naughty. I have not kept the holy 
Sabbath-day. I have been pricking these 
flowers into the paper from my frock." 

I felt an awe upon my spirit as the 
dear child stood tremblingly before me, 
and I realized, as never before, the purity 
and spirituality of that worship which He 
requires, before whom even the angels 
vail their faces. I felt then that God 
had taken the work into his own hands, 
and folding the dear child in my arms, 
I kneeled with her before the mercy- 
seat; for it was only in this way that 
she could be soothed when she felt that 
she had been doing wrong. 

From that time, as the light of each 
successive Sabbath dawned into my 
room, I would hear her sweet voice greet- 
ing its welcome return in notes of 



28 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



thanksgiving and praise. As soon as 
she ascertained that I was awake, she 
would say, " Mamma, God has given us 
another pleasant Sabbath." Or, at other 
times, " We must thank God for giving 
us another pleasant Sabbath." 

Very sweet were the prayers which 
this dear child now offered. Although 
she needed no form, yet she continued 
to use the same form of address, and the 
same close which were first taught her. 
From this time her mind seemed to me 
like a well-watered garden, bringing 
forth all manner of pleasant fruits. The 
truths of the gospel, instilled into it in 
much weakness and imperfection on the 
part of her teacher, were richly watered 
with the dews of divine grace, while the 
clear shining of the Sun of Righteousness 
caused them to spring forth in the sweet 
graces of infant piety. 

Her mind now began to unfold so ra- 
pidly, and events of interest (to her mo- 
ther at least) to crowd so thickly into 
her little span of life, that memory fails 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 29 



to place them in the order of occurrence. 
A brief selection will be made, without 
regard to order, from the incidents of her 
fourth year. An outline at best — for the 
beauty and loveliness of infant piety 
can only be fully portrayed by the same 
divine hand that implants it in the heart. 

Although a child of only three summers, 
yet, as the minister's eldest daughter, 
Louisa was often invited to dine with 
her father s parishioners, who were of 
course all uncles and aunis to the little 
girl. On returning one afternoon, from 
having dined out, she handed her mo- 
ther a little pin-cushion and needle- 
book which had been given her, saying 
that "Annie" (the little girl that gave 
them to her) was "as sweet as a rose." 
Then in a tone and manner expressive 
of surprise and disappointment she add- 
ed, "Mamma, uncle W don't say 

^ Our Father.'" 

It was afterward ascertained, that when 
seated at table, she had folded her little 
hands, and sat thus until every eye was 

2* 



30 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



fixed upon her^ when she quietly un- 
folded them and passed her plate, but 
made no comments at the time. 

Occasionally there was a beaming 
forth of intelligence which surprised 
even myself One mild, bright day in 
winter, Louisa was amusing her little 
sister with a doll in the dining-room. 
While waiting for dinner to be brought 
in, I took up a book and opened to Per- 
cival's (I think) Ode to Consumption. A 
part of it was so exceedingly beautiful 
that I read it aloud. Perceiving a little 
waving motion in the sun-light beyond 
the table, I looked and found that Louisa 
had popped up her little head, and was 
listening with delighted attention. On 
seeing that I noticed her, she exclaimed, 
" Oh, mamma, how beautiful ! ' The pur- 
ple,' and ' the cheek of snow !' Do read it 
again." I read the whole, while she lis- 
tened, and it seemed to me with a mea- 
sure of intelligent interest belonging 
rather to a person of mature and culti- 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 31 



vated mind, than a child who had not 
yet numbered four winters. 

Having lost my third infant, I resolv- 
ed, as soon as Mary should be able to 
speak, to dismiss the young nurse who 
had assisted me in the care of my chil- 
dren, and to devote myself exclusively 
to them. When Mary had closed her 
second year, I put my plan in execution. 
I now found Louisa's aid invaluable. 
She was as a guardian angel to Mary, 
although there was scarcely a percept- 
ible diJBFerence in the size of the two 
little ones. I could place them upon the 
door-steps, on the sunny side of the 
house^ and whenever Mary was inclined 
to step down, Louisa would gently hold 
her back by some new invention which 
her suggestive mind was quick in fur- 
nishing for the amusement of her charge. 

I now devoted some time each day to 
the instruction of Louisa, teaching her 
to read, spell, and sew, with such other 
little things as were suited to her ca- 
pacity. It was a treat to her to have 



32 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



words explained, when slie had spelled 
them. In doing this, I selected only 
those which could be illustrated by fa- 
miliar objects ; such as ' transparent/ for 
instance — in explaining which, the glass 
in the window and the clear water in the 
basin were made use of One day while 
she was sewing, a coloured woman, who 
had some care of her, was standing be- 
tween her and the window, when she 
complained that " Nancy took up all her 
light." The word transparent occurred 
to me, and I suggested it to her, when 
she immediately said, (to the no small 
amusement of the coloured woman,) 
" Nancy isn't transparent !" 

As the ground became dry in the 
spring, and the grass and flowers put 
forth, I allowed the little ones to run 
freely in the garden. But this was only 
a small space, for we had left our large 
house and grounds, and I was obliged to 
take them abroad daily for exercise. 
Sometimes their father would take his 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 33 



little girls to ride in the country, and 
see the lambs, and chickens, and trees 
and green fields; when Louisa would 
return with some available addition to 
her little stock of ideas. 

She could now, with spelling, read the 
long words; she could also earn her 
penny for the " Juvenile Mite Society," 
by sewing for her mother ; and it was so 
easy to ply the little being with motives, 
that there was danger of overtasking her 
physical as well as her mental powers. 
When she commenced sewing for the 
Mite Society, I had told her of the little 
Indian girl for whose benefit the money 
was designed, — how she had wandered 
about without a home, had slept on a 
bear-skin, having no kind mother to put 
her to bed at night or teach her to pray 
to our Father in heaven — so that she 
might labour intelligently for the object. 

At one time she manifested a little 
reluctance to do her small task at sew- 
ing. Partly by way of reproof, and 
partly for encouragement, I said to her. 



1 



34 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



"Little Lydia then cannot have her pen- 
ny." She immediately caught up her 
work, and while plying her little fingers 
with all her might, said, without raising I 
her eyes from her work, "Now will 
papa get up his horse and ride away as i 
fast as he can, and tell Mr. Kingsbury* 
not to send little Lydia back to sleep on 
her bear-skin again? I am earning the 
penny." 

I quickly found that the dear child 
was ill, and that it was on this account, 
and not from any reluctance to work, i 
that she had objected to sewing. It has | 
cost me many a pang of the heart-ache » 
since, to recall her image as she plyed 
the needle with trembling hands and " 
aching head. But the time was fast 
drawing on when she should no longer be 
exposed to suffer through the mistakes 
of others ; for the good Shepherd would 
cause her to rest in the bosom of his love. 

Boing detained from public worship 
one Sabbath, I thought I would try 

^ The Missionary among the Indians. 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 35 



Louisa with "Little Henry and his 
Bearer/' and see if she could read it in- 
telligibly. Finding that she could do 
this, with but little spelling, I allowed 
her to read it to me at intervals during 
the day, while I attended to her little 
sister, who was not quite well. As she 
approached the close I was often obliged 
to soothe her, she was so overcome by 
the story. At length she could refrain 
no longer, and with a voice broken with 
sobs she exclaimed, "mamma, I can't 
bear it ! Why won't Boosa throw away 
his wooden gods, and love Henry's God?" 
I told her that Boosa had done this. 
That Henry and his poor Bearer were, as 
I trusted, both happy together in heaven 
— that they would never be separated 
any more. I then determined never to 
excite her in the same manner again. 

In looking over the brief sketch which 
I have now given, it occurs to me that I 
may have left the impression that Louisa 
was treated in a manner too sober for 
such a little child. But whatever may 



36 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN". 



have been true in regard to this, or any 
other defect in the mode of her training, 
one thing is certain, she was neither a 
melancholy nor an unhappy child. So 
far from this, there was a sprightliness 
and even brilliancy in her mirth, which 
I have rarely seen equalled in other 
children. 

And here, after a long interval of 
years, I can vividly recall the clear light- 
ing up of her countenance, and the 
cheerful outgushing of her feelings, in 
prospect of a frolic with her father. 
Many a ride she got about the house, 
mounted on his shoulders, and clinging 
around his neck, to avoid being toss- 
ed off by the rapidity of his motion. 
He could never withstand her gentle, 
though expressive challenge. Sometimes 
it would be a slight pull at the skirt of 
his coat. Again, she would wrap her- 
self in his gown, and glide about with 
so much dexterity amid its ample folds 
as to elude his grasp for some time. 

At one time, in the midst of a merry 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 37 



frolic, she suddenly exclaimed that she 
had lost her thimble in her father's gown. 
Search was made for it immediately ; the 
gown was examined^ and every crack 
and cranny of the room explored, but to 
no purpose — the little girl steadily in- 
sisting that her thimble was in papa's 
gown. Years afterward, a little thimble 
was taken from among the thick wad- 
ding under the lining; the tiny hole 
through which it had slipped being so 
small as to elude detection. 

Every parent knows full wxU the feel- 
ing which is called forth, when some- 
thing belonging to a loved and lost one 
comes suddenly to view. The pang 
awakened in the breast by such a me- 
mento, shows, that however the hold 
may have been loosened, yet there 
has been no severance of the tie which 
binds the heart of the mother to her de- 
parted child. 

And here the overwhelming thought 
comes over the mind, that every thing 
which the mother does for her little one, 

4 



38 LOUISA^ MY FIEST-BORN. 



however insignificant it may appear at 
the time, she does for eternity! The 
reader will, I trust, pardon this digres- 
sion ; for the subject is one which surely 
must find an answering chord in the 
heart of every mother. 

But while this dear child was hlessed 
with her full share of mirthfulness and 
childish glee, she had, at the same time, 
some traits which seemed to belong to a 
maturer age than she was permitted to 
attain. There was a chasteness, a re- 
finement, even in her most frolicksome 
moods ; and then she had what appear- 
ed to be an intuitive sense of, and regard 
for the happiness and comfort of others. 

An incident occurs to my mind here, 
which is so characteristic of her little 
self, that I cannot forbear relating it. 
Louisa was at the house of a friend. A 
young lady, who was putting her to bed 
for the night, was suddenly called down, 
before she had done what was indispen- 
sable for the comfort of the child. In- 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BOEN. 39 



tending to return in a moment, she 
hastened down, where she found friends 
who had unexpectedly arrived, and by 
whom she was detained until a late hour 
in the evening, when recollecting herself 
and hastening to the chamber, she found 
Louisa in a wakeful and suffering state, 
and she began bitterly to reproach her- 
self for her forgetfulness and neglect. 
Louisa, on seeing her thus distressed, 
said in a soothing, comforting tone, " Oh, 
cousin Caroline, you only forgot!^ 

In this family, it was her privilege to 
visit freely. The mother, (an excellent 
lady and one of her father's parishioners,) 
often begged away the little girl for a 
few days; and the young ladies, her 
daughters, found her but little interrup- 
tion to their daily avocations, it was so 
easy to amuse her. A box of shells and 
pebbles, a few pictures, or a basket of 
blocks, would keep her pleasantly occu- 
pied for a whole morning. The head of 
the family was a true gentleman, refined 
and intelligent, and he delighted to en- 



40 ** LOUISA, MY FIKST-BORN. 



tertain the little girl with pictures and 
other things. She was seated next to 
him at table, where he took great pains 
with her position; also in teaching her 
how to use her spoon and fork. Her 
visits in this family were, as might be 
supposed, highly improving. She always 
returned from them with an added grace 
of manner and a fresh supply to her 
little stock of home enjoyments. 

A glance at her habits of intercourse 
with persons advanced in life, convinces 
me that they were far more cordial and 
cheerful than in most children. 

I can see her now running from her 
play at the call of some friend, and 
taking her place on the knee, respond- 
ing to the question, "Do you love me?" 
" I do;^ laying a particular stress on the 
word "do!' She never answered in the 
monosyllables "yes," or "no," but always 
substituted the verb expressive of the 
feeling or act. For instance, "Will you 
do this, or that?" " I will." " Are you 
happy or glad?" "lam." The thrust- 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 4l 



ing forward of the little shoulder, the 
pouting lip, or even the cold, uncomply- 
ing countenance, were never in a single 
instance seen in her. The child seemed 
to live but for the happiness of others. 
The spirit of a purer world had been 
breathed into hers, and under its influ- 
ence she was fast ripening for a partici- 
pation in its society and its blessedness. 

One pleasant afternoon in summer, 
while sitting with my little ones in the 
nursery, busily engaged in sewing, Louisa, 
who appeared all absorbed in amusing 
her little sister, suddenly rose, and com- 
ing to me with a countenance all radiant 
with her thoughts, addressed me in a 
manner which I could not but regard as 
extraordinary for a child in any circum- 
stances, and particularly for one who ap- 
peared to be thinking only of her doll 
and her little sister. 

"Mamma," she said, "you don't know 
but a little, but God knows a great deal. 
You don't know what is best, but God 
knows what is best." Having delivered 

4* 



42 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



her message (for to me it came like one 
from above) she as suddenly returned to 
her play, all unconscious of its weighty 
import, but evidently with sweet thoughts 
of God, and of her own dear mother. 

The bloom of summer, with its fervid 
heat, had nearly passed away, when 
Louisa finished her fourth year. Shortly 
after this, we took the little girl to see 
^^baby-sister's bed," as she called the 
little mound of earth in the burying- 
ground. We had been some time in the 
yard, silently reading the inscriptions on 
the stones which marked the last resting- 
places of friends, or absorbed in 9ur own 
meditations, when Louisa came to me 
with a request which she had evidently 
set her heart upon having granted. 
^^ Mamma," she said, ^' won't you come 
here some time with me alone, without 
papa." I want to stay a very long time. 
I want to plant a little rose on baby- 
sister's little bed." 

Just two weeks from that time we 
opened the little mound of earth, and 



LOUISA, MY FIEST-BORN. 43 



planted within it, not a frail rose, to 
bloom a few brief summer mornings, and 
then fade and be no more ; but an im- 
perishable flower, to be transplanted, 
again to bloom, and for ever to shed its 
fragrance in the paradise of God ! 

The lengthening shadows betokened 
the setting sun, when the little girl came 
to me again. 

^^ Mamma," she said, ^^I shall sleep 
here in my little bed in this burying- 
ground ?" 

" Yes," I answered. It was very com- 
mon for her to put questions in this form. 

^^ You will sleep here ? And papa will 
sleep here T 

"Yes," I again answered, for I did 
not wish to perplex the child with un- 
certainty as to the last resting-place 
either of herself or her parents, "we 
shall all sleep here." 

She then added, "In that pleasant: 
morning when Jesus Christ comes to- 
wake up all the people, will he wake up 
papa and you? Will he wake up me? 



44 LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN. 



Will papa open his eyes and speak to 
me ? Shall I look upon him ? Shall I 
know him ?" 

I had only time, to answer " We shall 
all know each other then/' — when we 
were summoned to the carriage, and we 
left the peaceful enclosure, soon to return 
to it under far different circumstances. 

That scene in the grave-yard is as 
fresh in my mind as if it were now 
passing. I can recall with perfect dis- 
tinctness that thoughtful little counte- 
nance, those soft eyes, the tender, yet 
earnest tones of that little voice, the 
quiet hour, and the calmness of the little 
girl, all contrasting strongly with the 
scenes of that august and awful morning, 
about which she was questioning. 

Louisa had never read in the Bible. 
I preferred that she should not do this 
until she could read without spelling the 
words. So I had myself read to her 
from that sacred book. But now I felt 
that the time had come for her to com- 
.mence reading it. It was a pleasant 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BOKN. 45 



afternoon in autumn, as she was playing 
with little Mary on the grass-plat by the 
door, that I called her to me, and open- 
ing the family Bible, I pointed to the 
passage that had always been so pleasant 
to her. In a clear, sweet voice, she read, 
'' Suffer the little children to come unto 
me, and forbid them not ; for of such is 
the kingdom of heaven." 

^^Now," said the little girl, ^^I can read 
in papa s Bible all about the Lord Jesus 
Christ; then I shall know all about him, 
and then I shall be good." It was the 
first and the last verse that she ever read 
in this book of God. 

At midnight, symptoms of the dysen- 
tery appeared. She took what was given 
her, and then said, " Now, mamma, lie 
down close by me, and tell me all about 
the Lord Jesus Christ. Then I shall 
know all about him, and then I shall be 
good." 

I did as she requested, and putting my 
arms around her, whispered to her of the 
Saviour's love. But I could not soothe 



46 LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN, 



her to sleep. She was restless, for the 
fever was burning in her veins. Soon 
she said — 

" Mamma, won't you and papa be sure 
to ask God, every night and every morn- 
ing, if he won't think it best for me to 
get well?" 

I told the dear child that we need not 
wait till morning, — we would do it then. 
The next morning, at her request, I 
carried her down to family prayers. She 
appeared weak, and I took her in my 
arms, but her little countenance bore no 
marks of disease, and her father thought 
her illness too slight to notice. On 
taking her back to her room, she knelt 
down by her little chair and offered such 
a prayer as I never heard, either before 
or since, from infant lips. As she seated 
herself in her little chair, she said, 
^^ Mamma, perhaps God will not think 
it best for me to get well. Perhaps he 
will think it best for me to die and go to 
heaven." 

My heart was becoming more and 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 47 



more fearful. But it was her state of 
mind which made me feel thus. I had 
carefully avoided every intimation that 
there was any thing alarming in her 
symptoms, and then the remedies had 
been applied so early that there was 
every reason to hope for success from the 
medical treatment under which we had 
placed her. She might perhaps have 
inferred the dangerous nature of her dis- 
ease from the fact that her play-mate had 
died of the same the year previous, 
but of this I was never certain. One 
thing appeared plain. Her mind, from 
some cause hidden to me, had been led 
to contemplate the subject of death in 
such a manner, as forced upon me the 
conviction that her own death could not 
be far distant. I kneeled and commend- 
ed myself and my dear child to God. 
As I rose, she fastened her eyes search- 
ingly upon me, and with a troubled and 
anxious look, said — 

"Mamma, have you been wicked to 
God ?" I know not what I had said to 



48 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



call forth the anxious inquiry, nor what 
method I took to comfort the child on 
this first flashing in upon her mind of 
the painful conviction that her parents, 
in common with others, were sinners, 
and needed pardon as well as they; for 
disease, with rapid advances, was fasten- 
ing upon its little victim, and soon she 
was prostrated beneath its power. 

How priceless appeared the soul of my 
child to me then ! How light, how tri- 
fling, appeared all I had done, or had air 
tempted to do, to prepare it for the eter- 
nity into which I felt it was just about 
to be ushered. The changeless nature 
of that state, too, was to me an over- 
whelming thought. Whatever she was 
then, I felt that she must remain through- 
out the endless ages of eternity. Mis- 
takes, if I had made them, it was then 
too late to correct. But it was a sense 
of my deficiencies, which most oppressed 
me. Had I thought of her dying so soon, 
how much more earnest and serious I 
might have been ; how much more pray- 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN". 49 



erful and confiding in the promises made 
to believing parents ! As it was, I think 
I was enabled to surrender her entirely 
to God. I felt that she was his — that 
she had never been mine — a blessing 
only lent; and now that he was taking 
her back, he was taking only his own. 
I felt that notwithstanding all my defi.- 
ciencies, yet on his part all had been 
done to prepare the little one for the mo- 
mentous change that awaited her. And 
now, on looking back after the lapse of 
several years, and carefully reviewing all 
the circumstances of that little life, I can 
say, that in respect to the child, " He 
hath done all things well." But to re- 
turn to the narrative. 

Louisa soon began to loathe her medi- 
cine. After having taken repeated doses, 
she turned her head away from one 
which I carried to her. 

" Louisa," I said, " I want to have you 
take this. I fear you will not get well 
if you do not." 

"Mamma," said she, faintly, yet dis- 

5 



50 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



tinctly, ^^I don't want to get well — I 
want to die ?" 

^^But where will you go/' I said, "if 
you do die !" 

"I will go to heaven/' said she, in the 
same little, feeble voice. 

"Who will you see there, my dear 
child?" I asked. 

" I will see Jesus/' she meekly replied. 
When told that it would please Jesus if 
she took her medicine, she immediately 
swallowed it. 

After this, she showed much fortitude 
in taking what was given her ; a little 
"cold fresh water — in the cup," as she 
said, being all she wanted after each 
nauseous dose. 

One day her kind physician brought 
her a fine peach, and told her she should 
have some of it after her medicine. 
Placing the peach in her hand, he car- 
ried her the medicine, which she took ; 
but turning away from the juicy and 
tempting fruit, she pointed to the well- 
known little cup ; at the same time hold- 



LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORi^r. 51 



ihg down the sickening draught with the 
sleeve of her night-gown, until the cup 
could be brought. 

One afternoon, as she lay quiet upon 
her pillow, I took to her an ivory fan, 
which had been given her when she 
was only two years old. In health it 
had been a great treat to her to have 
this fan. Not a thread of its delicate 
tracery and carving of lace-work had 
ever been broken by her little fingers. 
She took the fan, opened it, and spread- 
ing it upon her bosom, she folded her 
hands and closed her eyes, as if in pray- 
er. I removed it with the feeling that 
she had done with earthly things. 

She said but little during her sickness, 
having been from the first overpowered 
by disease. Only once during her illness 
did she express a wish for any thing, ex- 
cept the " cold fresh water — in the cup." 
At one time, as the morning approached, 
there was a mitigation of the unfavour- 
able symptoms. Her mind seemed to 
recover itself, and she said with her 



52 LOUISA^ MY FIRST-BORN, 



usual cheerfulness^ ^^I do want to see 
little Mary." But Mary had been re- 
moved from the house; and when the 
morning came, her mind had sunk back 
again, overpowered by disease. 

In the hour of quiet referred to, she 
had some pleasant conversation with the 
lady who watched with her. It was 
very pleasant to Louisa to have her stay 
by her. At one time she said to her — 

"Miss Emily, I do love you dearly;" 
and then added that if she got well, she 
would "embroider" her a pin-cushion. 

This lady taught a school of little 
girls, and she had often taken Louisa 
into it as a visiter. The last time she 
was in the school, which was just before 
her illness, she was observed to look 
round thoughtfully upon each one, with- 
out smiling, as she had been won't to do, 
whenever her eye met them. That 
night, when saying her prayers, she 
paused after the petition, "please to 
make me and my little sister good chil- 
dren," and then in an earnest, yet tender 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 53 



manner, she added, ^^ please to make all 
the little children in Miss E.'s school, 
good children." When the children 
were told of this, after her death, they 
immediately referred to her manner 
when last in the school, and said, " She 
must have been thinking about it then." 

After this night she sunk very rapid- 
ly. The last day of her illness, she was 
apparently unconscious of what was 
passing around her. She lay most of 
the time quietly, but her breathing, and 
the occasional throwing out of her arms 
convulsively, showed that the last breath 
would soon be drawn. 

After the dews of death had gathered 
upon her brow, there was a low mur- 
muring from those parted lips, beneath 
the drooping eyelids, ^^ Mamma, you hurt 
me." It would have been a relief then, 
if the dear one could have been made to 
understand that it was not "mamma's" 
hand that she felt, — that it was but the 
loosing of the "silver cord," and soon it 
would be over: but the parting spirit 

5^ 



54 LOUISA, MY FIEST-BORN 



had retired too far within the vail of 
death, to give back a token, if indeed it 
heeded the mother's voice. 

A few hours of apparent unconscious- 
nesS; and then the little spirit was re- 
leased and taken safely into the ark of 
infinite love ! 

My thoughts love to cluster around 
the circumstances of the life and death 
of my child; to contrast her present 
immortal, with her past earthly and 
dying life. I love to contemplate, and 
dwell upon the change. Earth for hea- 
ven — a perishable mansion for a palace 
the foundations whereof are of sapphire 
and the gates of pearl — the garden of 
her home for the garden of paradise; 
there to walk beneath the shade of that 
tree whose leaf does not wither, and 
by those pure waters which gladden the 
city of God. To reflect with grateful 
feeling on what she has escaped — the 
seductions of a tempting world — the 
pangs of remorse attendant upon guilty 
departures from God — to feel assured 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 55 



that now she will sin no more ; no more 
will grieve the love of her heavenly 
Father^ but will for ever walk in the light 
of his countenance^ and know the full 
joy of his salvation. 

"Joy, joy be the theme of the angel throng, 
Let the temples of paradise ring with the song, 
For a purified soul to its God has risen, 
A deathless spirit hath reach'd its heaven." 

It is no small satisfaction to feel that 
now all her earnest desires to '^know all 
about the Lord Jesus Christ" have been 
fully answered ; the Lamb himself being 
her teacher and guide. 

Surely the removal of such a child, 
seems more like a translation than a 
death. Such do not die : 

''They set, as sets the morning star, which 
Goes not down behind the darken' d west, 
But sinks away into the light of heaven." 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 57 



ON THE DEATH OF LOUISA. 



The head wHcli time witli silver crowns, 
Kind nature points to silent clay ; 

The atheist, when affliction frowns. 
Would dash the cup of life away ; 

But she, to mouldering earth withdrawn, 
Nor age had felt, nor anguish known; 

Fair as the bud that greets the morn, 
Yet withers ere its dews have flown. 

To hover round a sister's love. 
To win a parent's fondest kiss, 

To learn the name of Him above, 

Fill'd up her transient span with bliss. 

Religion, too, with voice divine. 

Would bend to prompt her early theme, 

And oft the Saviour's smile benign 
Came mingling with her softest dream. 

From the pale moon's reflected ray 
She caught instruction pure and mild, 

And even the Sabbath's holy day 

Was reverenced by that duteous child. 



58 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN, 



Meekly her infant sister's bed 

She mark'd with gath'ring verdure dress'd, 
Unconscious then how soon her head 

Beneath that kindred turf should rest. 

Now round Louisa's lowly grave 

Shall little footsteps print the green, 

And sporting groups their gambols waive, 
Mutely to point the mournful scene ; 

While many a glowing brow shall wear 

The unaccustom'd trace of wo, 
That she who breathed with them the prayer, 

Must sleep so cold and dark below. 

Her parents ! (ah ! their bitter tear 
Long at that name beloved shall start ;) 

Yet if there be a joy to cheer 

Such anguish in a Christian's heart — 

'Tis when to faith sublime is given 

Her God in darkness to adore ; 
'Tis when a mother meets in heaven 

The angel that on earth she bore. 



LOUISA, MY FIEST-BORN. 59 



x$. Sipwrns's ^^^xm. 



TO THE HARTFORD JUVENILE MITE SOCIETY, ON 
THE OCCASION OE LITTLE LOUISA'S DEATH. 



My dear Young Friends — 
I wish to address a few words to 
you on a melancholy, yet interesting sub- 
ject. You will probably think that I 
allude io the death of Louisa. I know 
that she was a member of your Mite So- 
ciety, and that many of you loved her 
as a companion; and followed her mourn- 
fully to the spot where her lifeless re- 
mains rest. And shall this be all? 
Will you return to your employments, to 
your sportS; and in a few weeks forget 
the emotion with which you contem- 
plated her open grave ? It ought not to 
be so. An ancient writer has said that 
"it is a great loss to lose an affliction." 



60 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



Is it not also a great loss to retain no se- 
rious impressions when your dear com- 
panions go down to the place of silence ? 

"Shall they suffer, shall they die in vain?'* 

In the character of the dear departed 
Louisa, there were some excellencies 
which should be kept in remembrance. 
They are worthy of your imitation. 
They have already been related to you* 
with more feeling and energy than my 
pen can hope to attain ; yet the memory 
is often so treacherous with regard to 
the best things, that ^4ine should be 
upon line," and ^^ precept upon precept." 

She whom we wish to contemplate, 
though very young, was remarkably at- 
tentive to the duties of the Sabbath. 
As soon as its sacred nature was explain- 
ed to her, she expressed her willingness 
to lay aside, on that day, those toys and 
sources of amusement in which children 
at that early age are often indulged. 

* By the father of Louisa, the Rev. Mr. , to the chil- 
dren of his parish. 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 61 



When she awoke on that consecrated 
season, she would say, " Oh, what a plea- 
sant Sabbath morning, mamma; will you 
kneel down and thank our God for giving 
it to us?" 

She was sincerely affectionate to her 
little sister. When prepared to go to 
the public service of the Sabbath, she 
would sometimes say, ^^ Mamma, let us 
kneel down and ask our Father in hea- 
ven to take care of little Mary while we 
are gone." ^^Let us pray, too, that he 
would take care of papa and us, while 
we are at meeting." She seemed to be 
desirous of obeying her Maker, as far as 
she was capable of understanding his 
will. One Sabbath morning she had 
been reading a long time, until she was 
weary. Her mother then told her she 
might sit down and be very quiet, as she 
wished to read herself. She took her 
chair, and began with a pin to prick 
some paper, which she held in her hand. 
Presently she arose with tears in her 
eyes, and expressed with much feeling 



62 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN 



her fear that her Father in heaven 
would be offended with her for trifling 
on his holy day^ nor would she rest satis- 
fied until she had knelt and entreated 
his forgiveness. " I felt then/' said her 
mother, ^Hhat God was doing his own 
work, for she was evidently under divine 
teaching." She was often in prayer. 
The morning on which she was taken ill, 
she was observed to kneel in her cham- 
ber, and confess those errors which she 
could recollect to have committed. She 
had a form of prayer composed for her 
stated devotion. To this she was accus- 
tomed to add petitions which arose from 
the circumstances in which she happened 
to be placed, and would sometimes ask 
with affecting simplicity, " Now will God 
do it T The night before her sickness, 
after having asked that the Almighty 
would make herself and her little sister 
"good children," she added, "Please to 
make all the little children in Miss 

R 's school, good children." 

She was desirous to be able to read in 



LOUISA, MY first-bor:n". 63 



the Bible. Though only four years old, 
she read from her father's Bible, the after- 
noon before her fatal disease commenced, 
that affecting permission of our Saviour, 
" Suffer little children to come unto me, 
and forbid them not, for of such is the 
kingdom of heaven." " Now," said she, 
" I can read about the Lord Jesus 
Christ, and then I shall be good." The 
first two nights that she was sick, she 
said to her mother, ^^Lay down beside 
me, and tell me all about the Saviour, 
and when I know all about him, I shall 
be good." 

She seemed not to have that fear of 
death which children usually express. 
When in health, she had visited the 
grave of her infant sister, and exclaimed, 
"What a pleasant bed!" When after- 
ward it appeared that she was also ap- 
pointed to lay down in that narrow 
house, and she was inquired of where 
she thought she should go if she died, 
her answer was, "I will go to heaven." 
In the early part of her short and dis- 



64 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BOEN 



tressing sickness^ she said, ^^ Mamma, I 
don't know as God will think it best for 
me to get well. Perhaps he will think 
it best for me to die and go to heaven." 
So much instruction had she received on 
the subject of death, and so familiarly 
had she been accustomed to speak of it, 
that it exhibited to her nothing of 
gloom — no image of fear. The grave 
where she now sleeps, she considered as 
a place from whence she should arise 
and be received by her Redeemer. 
Might not older Christians learn some- 
thing from the example of this little 
child ? — -They who sjoeak so seldom of 
death, as if they would fain forget that 
for this end they came into the world ; 
or as if they had already forgotten that 
^Ho die is to accomplish life," and that 
to be with Christ is great gain. Ought 
not parents and instructors of children 
to converse with them more frequently 
of this event ? — Not with a gloomy and 
austere countenance, as of something 
that they themselves greatly dreaded. 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 65 



Ought it not rather to be represented to 
the infant pilgrim as a journey to a ^^far 
country/' for which daily preparation 
should be made, by prayers of penitence, 
and deeds of love — by striving to imi- 
tate the character of its glorious inha- 
bitants ? 

Had Louisa lived, my dear young 
friends, she would doubtless have been 
trained by her parents in the paths of 
goodness and benevolence. She would 
have rejoiced in continuing to meet you 
here, and aid in your charitable designs. 
But the wise God who seeth in darkness 
hath removed her, as a fair bud is wi- 
thered ere it opens into a perfect flower. 
You are yet spared, my dear children. 
You are still permitted to look upon the 
fields, and the waters, and the glorious 
sky which the hand of your Maker hath 
stretched out. Your hands, full of life 
and vigour, are still sufiered to cast their 
mite into the treasury of your Lord. 

Your ears, unsealed by the dust of 
death, still hear of the miseries of the 

6* 



66 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 



heathen. No wonder that they should 
shudder at the darkness of the pit, for 
they have never heard of the resurrec- 
tion. No wonder that they cling to this 
miserable life; they have no promise of 
a better. You will assist, dear children, 
in pouring upon their souls the hope of 
heaven. You have already done it, and 
I trust that God will bless your efforts. 
Perhaps the soul of that child whom you 
are now supporting, may hereafter join 
in the song of the redeemed. May you 
all unite with it in a song of thanks- 
giving to the Lamb that was slain ! 

The death of this companion is to you 
a strong admonition of the uncertainty 
of life. You have been taught it before ; 
but perhaps it has never led you to say, 
" I too must dieP You may have seen 
some beautiful infant, pale in the arms 
of its mother, like a blossom full of dew, 
yet smitten on its stalk. You may have 
seen it laid in the earth, and covered 
with damp, cold clods, to rise no more 
till the voice of the archangel shall 



LOUISA, MY FIRST-BORN. 67 



awake the dead. Perhaps you may 
have wept, but forgot to inquire, '' Where 
is God my Maker? who teacheth me 
more than the beasts of the earth, and 
hath made me wiser than the fowls of 
heaven ?" 

Strive to bring this providence home 
to your own bosom. Let it be as a 
monitor, exclaiming, ^' The time is short." 
Let it make you more industrious, more 
charitable, more anxious to be at peace 
with Him, who for our sins is justly of- 
fended. Let your alms be the fruit of 
self-denial, and given in humility. Strive 
to please that bountiful Being who hath 
granted you health, and life, and is able, 
when they vanish, to give you life ever- 
lasting. 

Think of your minister in this afflic- 
tion. Remember how often he has pray- 
ed for your salvation. When his people 
mourn, or are sick, he sympathizes in 
their griefs. If any of you were to die, 
he would feel afflicted, and endeavour to 
comfort your parents and friends from 



68 LOUISA, MY FIRST-BOKN. 



the words of that blessed book which 
teaches the Christian not to "sorrow as 
without hope." In your prayers, when 
you rise in the morning/ and when you 
take your rest;, say, " Holy Father, I be- 
seech thee to support and comfort the 
parents of Louisa. Enable me to imi- 
tate her in those things which were 
pleasing to thee. Give me a new heart, 
that I may love goodness, and put my 
trust in the Saviour of sinners. May I 
reverence thy Sabbaths, and relieve the 
children of want and ignorance. Grant 
that when the grave shall be my bed, I 
may feel no fear; but with joy ascend to 
praise thee for ever, like the angels in 
heaven." 




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